The deck was much larger than it had looked from shore.
The main mast stood at its center.
As Erwin stepped onto the deck, his eyes moved between the mast’s base, the bow, and the cargo hatch.
He lightly tapped the planks twice with his fingers before speaking.
“A standard merchant cog.
Single mast, square sail.
Fifteen meters long, five meters across the beam, with a carrying capacity of roughly one hundred and fifty tons above the waterline.”
He pointed toward the square hatch in the middle of the deck.
“That’s the entrance to the main cargo hold.
The standard layout for this type of ship has two levels.
The lower deck serves as ballast and carries heavy cargo, while the upper deck is used for passengers or lighter goods.”
Standing half a step behind Rhoen, Miko stared at Erwin with his mouth slightly open.
He tapped the deck once more with the tip of his boot, then shifted a step to the left.
“This section of the deck has been replaced.
The original planks should have run lengthwise, but these are laid crosswise.
It was a temporary repair done midway through a voyage.”
He raised his head, taking his eyes off the deck to look at Rhoen.
“This ship has suffered at least one major deck failure.
The hull is also covered with countless old arrow scars.
Looks like Walter, the respectable merchant, had some rather less respectable business at sea.”
“No wonder none of the others besides Walter were wearing heavy armor,” Rhoen said with a nod.
Erwin tucked the wooden board back under his arm.
“During boarding actions at sea, anyone wearing heavy armor sinks faster than a stone.”
Rhoen walked toward the hatch and pulled it open.
The moment it lifted, the stench of sweat, urine, and countless other indescribable odors rushed out, forcing him to take two steps back.
A ladder descended into complete darkness.
“Torch.”
The light revealed rows upon rows of wooden cages inside the hold.
Silence filled the cargo hold for about the span of a heartbeat.
Then the sounds came.
It was the collective exhale of people who had been imprisoned for far too long and had finally seen someone approaching who wasn’t carrying a whip.
Some of them pressed themselves against the wooden bars, trembling hands reaching through the gaps toward the torchlight.
Rhoen stood at the top of the ladder with the torch held before him.
The first thing he saw was their eyes.
Dozens of pairs of eyes gleamed behind the wooden bars.
Some blinked.
Some did not.
Some remained utterly motionless even after the torchlight fell upon them, their hands still gripping the bars, their bodies already stiff with death.
Rhoen’s gaze lingered on those eyes for a brief moment before moving on.
“Open the cages.”
Miko was the first to move.
Taking a battle axe from one of his comrades, he walked to the nearest cage and smashed the iron lock apart with a single blow.
But no one came out.
The people inside shrank farther back, staring at the sword in Miko’s hand, then at the towering giant behind him clad head to toe in chainmail—over two meters tall.
Rhoen stepped forward.
He raised the torch a little higher, letting its light fall across his own face.
“Everyone,” he said, his voice echoing throughout the hold.
“My name is Rhoen.
This ship belongs to me now.
Everything aboard it belongs to me—the cargo, the weapons, the gold.”
He paused.
“But you don’t.”
Someone inside one of the cages stirred, leaning forward.
“You have two choices,” Rhoen continued, his deep voice carrying clearly enough for every person in the hold to hear.
“You can leave now.
No one will stop you.
Beyond this beach, there’s a swamp to the east, a river mouth to the west, and dense forest to the north. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
How far you make it depends entirely on yourselves.”
He raised his right hand and hooked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Or you can return to my camp with me.
The camp has walls, food, and beds.
But for the time being, you won’t be allowed to leave.
The people behind this ship are connected to Nilfgaard’s military.”
“You’ve seen their faces.”
“And you’ve seen ours.”
“Until this matter is settled, anyone who leaves the camp could expose its location.
And when that happens, it won’t just be you who dies.”
His gaze swept from the front of the hold all the way to the back.
“Anyone who comes with me will earn food and protection through work.
If you know how to farm, you’ll farm.
If you’re a blacksmith, you’ll work the forge.
If you can cook, you’ll cook.
And if you can’t do any of those things, you can still carry supplies.”
“No one eats for free.”
He slid the torch into an iron ring on the bulkhead, flooding the entire hold with light.
“Choose.”
The hold fell silent for a moment.
Then a middle-aged woman in a gray robe slowly rose to her feet, her hair a tangled mess as she held a child tightly in her arms.
She walked up to Rhoen and looked up at him.
She said nothing.
Still holding the child in her arms, she passed by him and climbed the ladder to the deck.
The second person to stand was a young man, so gaunt that his collarbones jutted through the collar of his shirt.
He headed toward the hatch behind Rhoen.
Then came the third.
The fourth.
One after another, they filed out until they had all made their way onto the deck.
The last one to emerge from a cage was a dwarf.
Everyone in the hold heard him coming.
Not because of his footsteps, but because his shoulder slammed into the cage doorway, knocking the entire wooden frame crooked.
He cursed, his voice as rough as an anvil ringing beneath a blacksmith’s hammer.
He barely reached Rhoen’s waist in height, but his shoulders were absurdly broad, and the arms hanging at his sides were thicker than Miko’s thighs.
Standing in the doorway of the cage, he narrowed his eyes as he swept his gaze across the hold.
His eyes paused briefly on Miko’s sword before he tilted his head back to look Rhoen in the face.
“So if I go with you lot, there’s food?” he asked, suspicion mixed with a flicker of hope.
“There is,” Rhoen replied.
“A forge?”
“You’ll have iron, but no forge.”
The dwarf snorted.
“Iron’s enough.
I can build the rest myself.” He slapped both hands against his chest.
“Brom.
Blacksmith.
I’ve been forging iron for seventy-seven years.
Weapons, armor—I can make it all.
Whatever you need, I can forge it.
But I’ve got three rules.”
He raised one thick, stubby finger.
“First, I don’t work for free.
Food, lodging, and ale are included.
And the ale had better be good.”
He raised a second finger.
“Second, if I say I can make it, I can make it. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
If I say I can’t, then you can bury me in gold and it still won’t happen.
I won’t disgrace my craft.”
He raised a third finger…
Then lowered it again.
The corners of his mouth drooped, making his beard twitch.
“Third…
haven’t thought of it yet.
I’ll tell you when I do.”
Rhoen looked down at him.
Brom looked back up, his neck craned, his face buried beneath a mass of curly red beard.
“There’s ale at the camp,” Rhoen said.
“Not much, but enough for you.”
The corners of Brom’s mouth twitched upward.
Rolling his shoulders, he headed for the deck.
Someone at the very back of the hold stood up.
She had been sitting quietly in the corner the whole time.
Her light blond hair was braided down her back and tied with a faded blue strip of cloth.
A row of small leather pouches hung from her belt.
Her face bore no wounds, but her cheeks were hollow from hunger.
She stopped in front of Rhoen and looked up at him.
Her eyes were gray-green.
“I’m Aina, an herbalist from the Temple of Melitele,” she said.
“You’re injured.”
Rhoen looked down at her.
“Your palm,” she said.
“The skin’s been worn off.”
Rhoen turned his hand over.
A patch of skin at the base of his palm had indeed been rubbed raw.
She took a small ceramic jar from one of her pouches.
Inside was a pale green ointment with a cool, bitter scent, as though mint and wormwood had been crushed together.
She didn’t ask whether Rhoen wanted treatment.
She simply spread the ointment across his palm.
It was cool to the touch, and the moment it covered the wound, his fingers twitched.
“Change the dressing tomorrow,” she said, tucking the jar back into her pouch.
“By the day after tomorrow, you won’t need it anymore.”
She raised her head and met Rhoen’s eyes.
“You said no one would be allowed to leave the camp for the time being.
I heard you.” She tightened the drawstring of her pouch.
“I’ll go with you, but I have one condition.”
“Go on.”
“Whether they’re soldiers or farmers, if someone is injured or falls ill, I’ll treat them.
If a woman goes into labor, I’ll deliver the child.” Her voice was gentle, yet unwavering.
“But when it comes to medicine, or deciding which patients need rest, I ask that you respect my judgment.”
She paused, her gray-green eyes never leaving his.
“The Nilfgaardians drove every priestess out of the temple.
My teacher refused to leave, so they dragged her away.
I still don’t know whether she’s alive or dead.”
She pressed her lips together.
The cracked corner of her mouth split slightly, and a thin line of blood seeped out.
“But I will never forget Melitele’s teachings.
Everyone who suffers deserves to be healed, no matter which god they worship, and no matter which side they stand on.”
She wrapped the pouch’s drawstring once around her finger and pulled it tight.
Rhoen looked at her.
“An herb garden,” he said.
“There’s an open patch of land behind the camp.
Plant whatever you think should grow there.”
Aina smiled softly, nodded once, and walked toward the ladder.